


The Importance Of Being Frank

by KinkyGrrlDiane (AnneTaylor)



Series: Clone Wars [1]
Category: NYPD Blue, The X-Files
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21998377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneTaylor/pseuds/KinkyGrrlDiane
Summary: Frank Colohan has been worked over by guys from the 15th precinct and tossed out into the street. Covered with his own vomit and unsure where to go, he is confronted by Fox Mulder of the FBI, who thinks he's Alex Krycek.
Relationships: Alex Krycek/Fox Mulder, Alex Krycek/Walter Skinner
Series: Clone Wars [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583554
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	The Importance Of Being Frank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank Colohan has been worked over by guys from the 15th precinct and tossed out into the street. Covered with his own vomit and unsure where to go, he is confronted by Fox Mulder of the FBI, who thinks he's Alex Krycek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although this is listed as a crossover, it is essentially an X-Files story and the parent series (Clone Wars) will include many of the characters played by Nicholas Lea (Alex Krycek in the X-Files). Nick played Frank Colohan in two episodes of NYPD Blues; One In The Nuts and Meat Me In The Park.
> 
> My apologies to NYPD fans if my interpretation offends. Frank Colohan was an admitted wife-beating scumbag in canon. But I needed to twist his backstory to suit my purposes, and that has involved painting one of the minor NYPD characters with a slightly different set of motivations than she was initially given by the script.
> 
> So if this is not your cha-cha, consider yourself warned and look elsewhere...
> 
> WARNING: this fic is a work-in-progress. I will be doing round robin development on it with five (currently) other fanfic pieces, as well as a number of other fiction stories. So no promises as to schedule...

Frank Colohan staggered the last few steps down the dirty stone staircase of the 15th precinct. It was all he could do to keep from falling; his eyes refused to focus properly and he was sure he’d be pissing blood tonight.

Michelle’s sister and her thuggish uniformed buddies would be watching him from the windows, self satisfied bastards. Nausea surged up, overcoming the agonizing pain and he nearly ran the dozen or so steps it took him to reach the alley beside the police station.

Nothing came up but a little bile. The light was too dim to tell if there was any blood. _They can’t get away with this._ Fury warred with his physical misery. _They can’t just beat me up and threaten me like this._

_Of course they can. They’re cops. And this is New York City._

_Bastards. All of them._

_They’re only doing their job_ , he argued halfheartedly. _Protecting the victim. That’s what they’re paid to do_.

 _I don’t give a shit. They’re wrong_.

_They don’t know that. Why should they believe you over one of their own?_

Michelle was a pretty woman. Young. Pregnant. Wearing a spectacular array of bruises like a martyr’s mantle.

No, not a martyr. Nothing so wholesome.

…watching them with that doe-caught-in-the-headlights look that he knew for an absolute fact that she practiced in front of a mirror. Small wonder that their protective instincts were aroused. Just the same way his had been, once. Back when she was just a dark-eyed girl he’d met by chance at a bar. He’d bought her one beer, then another. She’d drunkenly and tearfully confessed to him that her former boyfriend used to hit her. That he’d done “things” to her, to make her like it. Like being hurt.

God, what an easy mark he had been. Drunk after two beers? Right. If he’d looked a little more closely, he would have noticed the signs of a habitual drinker.

Though, it might not have made much of a difference. He’d have assumed she drank out of shame, because of what her boyfriend had done to her. Still, it wouldn’t have gone anywhere if it hadn’t been for his own particular weakness. Looking back, he could see that their meeting hadn’t been merely chance. He was a regular at the bar, and his tastes in bedroom entertainment were hardly a secret.

What had she called him last night? A boy scout and a rapist all wrapped up into one sexy package, every girl’s fantasy.

God, it had been good. For a while. Long enough to induce him to put a ring on her finger. Long enough for the fantasy to turn to dust. He thought he’d found the perfect woman, but it turned out he was only half right.

All he wanted to do was fall down on the ground and puke his guts out. Again. But he wasn’t about to give his audience that satisfaction. He didn’t need to look up to know that there were eyes on him. He pulled up the collar of his shirt; a pointless gesture, since it wasn’t giving him any warmth anyway.

A cold wind rolled over his neck and back as he stepped out of the alley. A few drops of rain spattered his head. The autumn leaves skidded past on the dirty streets, wedging up against the brickwork of a three-story building. The mortar was blackened in a long, vertical streak next to a garbage can; this must be a hangout for the homeless. Two large green dumpsters loomed prominently nearby.

 _This is where a couple of revved up crack-heads pop out of the dumpster and shake me down for drug money_ , Frank thought. _And then shoot me_. His shoulder felt sprained and his gut ached. The motel 6 where he’d parked his stuff was a roach trap, but home was where your shit was, right? What did that even mean? _I haven’t had a home in a long time_. It sucked and yes, he was feeling sorry for himself. Even the lab rats had a home, after all…

A hand closed around his arm. Oh shit, what now?

The man who gripped his arm was about the same height as Frank. He had tousled brown hair and green eyes, and full lips. The kind Frank probably would have kissed if he were into guys. Nice, solid chin and a distinct jawline.

“Hey, you’re a real looker, but I’m not…” His voice trailed off. The man had a gun. He raised his hands. “Look,” he began desperately. “I don’t have any money. I’d be glad to empty my pockets and my wallet to prove it.”

“You’re a real joker, aren’t you, Krycek? And don’t you look classy? You smell like vomit and you look like shit. Double dealing doesn’t seem like it’s working out for you right now. Or is it triple? I’ve lost track. See that car down the road? The brown Chevy? You’re going to put on these,” the man slipped a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket, “and we’re going to go have the nice leisurely conversation that we never seem to have time for.”

Alex? Shit, he thinks I’m Alex?

This never ends well, Frank thought in despair. Never. “Hey…you’ve got me mistaken for someone else. My name isn’t Alex. It’s Frank Colohan. Go ahead…check my ID.”

The man snorted. “Like I haven’t heard that from you before…”

And they never believe me. Is the entire world that stupid? “I’m not going anywhere with you,” Frank told him. “The last time I let someone stuff me in a car” _because he thought I was Alex_ “I ended up with three broken ribs and a road rash the size of Manhattan. We’re next door to a police station,” Frank raised his voice. “If I start screaming, you’re going to have a whole lot of cops swarming your ass. So, whoever you are, f…fuck off.” He hoped he sounded more confident than he was. Who the hell was this guy, anyway?

“Ordinarily, I’d engage in the usual, Krycek. You know, you try some lame-ass trick, it doesn’t work, you whine about it, I put you in handcuffs, you tell me if I don’t let you go someone is going to die…” The man’s look turned sour. “I’ve decided to try an entirely new approach this time.”

His fist drove into Frank’s gut.

Frank doubled over, dry retching. Small favors, he thought. _Oh, shit…I know who this guy is…”_ He collapsed and rolled painfully onto his back. “You’re FBI, aren’t you? You’re…” _Fox Mulder. How the hell did I not recognize him?_

“There are three men in a Brooklyn morgue that have your M.O. all over them, Krycek. One of them is a congressman’s son. Oh, but I’ll bet you already knew that. Just like you knew that he was in F.B.I. custody, waiting to testify against your bosses. Now, you can do what I say and nobody needs to get hurt any more than they already have. Or…” he put his boot on Frank’s chest and leaned.

Frank struggled to throw him off but the combination of the brutal beating that he had taken earlier, low blood sugar and a growing feeling of hopelessness handicapped him. His vision started to fuzz and there was a roaring sound in his ears.

Suddenly the weight disappeared from his chest. He coughed, his eyes watering, and smelled a heady, sweet smell. Chloroform. He heard a thud. Frank peered uncertainly up at the face of the man who towered over him. Dark hair. Hazel eyes. “Alex?”

"Hello, little brother. It's been a while."


End file.
